The Seige Of Dragonard Hill Part 11

I36.

Vicky's mind was still on the patroller, the state of her clothes, the idea of perhaps even making love again but this time with Poiiguet.

'This is good news about Greenleaf,' he a.s.sured her. I was hoping to speak about it with your father.'

I do not think that that is advisable, Monsieur. Father is very techy on the subject of Greenleaf. You will appreciate that matter, remembering that the plantation was once the home of my late stepmother.'

Poiiguet said, 'I do not mean to pursue the matter, Con-desa, but I have a matter which might interest your father. Do not fear. I will not depress him. I appreciate his mourning. '

'You are very kind.' Although Vicky still found this Creole attractive, she now noticed something troubling about him. Something she could not quite understand. It had to do with his deportment, his almost. . . subservient manner.

'As I told you at our last meeting, this community is small. Word is hard to contain.' He eyed her and said, 'Do you not think it's strange that even I-an outsider-have heard about a boy called Lloy who lives at Treetop House? He is the son of a woman manumitted from here when you, I dare say, were probably only a mere infant, and sired by a slave called Monk who once lived here.'

Vicky was not interested in the past. She knew of Monk. She knew he had been killed in some gruesome manner. Such atrocities were the consequences of a slave system to her. She did not question them. She was more interested in deciding what had changed in her estimation of Jerome Poiiguet since she had last seen him. Was it only because she had just enjoyed abandoned s.e.x with the rugged pa-troller? Or was Poiiguet not the man whom she had originally imagined him to be?

Mounting the white slate steps, Vicky swept past Poiiguet saying, 'You most certainly must come inside, Monsieur. I do not know if my Father is even around the house. But after I brush the dust of the road from my hair and freshen up a bit, I shall be most glad to entertain you.'

Poiiguet followed her into the house, paying more attention to the lavish appointments in the entry-hall than he did to his young hostess proceeding him across the highly polished floors.

I37.

Jerome Poliguet sat alone in a sitting-room lined with loire silk the colour of crushed raspberries. Vicky had gone pstairs to make repairs to her clothing and, when Poliguet eard the door open to the room, he rose from the divan xpecting to see Vicky standing in the doubledoors. He istead faced a tall, thin man dressed in kneehigh black oots, nankeen trousers, and a s.h.i.+rt with sleeves rolled up ) his elbows.

'Mister Poliguet, my daughter told me you were here, ly name is Peter Abdee.'

'Ah, Mister Abdee! It is you I have come to see!'

Nodding to the divan where Poliguet had been sitting, 'eter said, 'I have heard you were practising law in Troy. wish you good luck." He sat in a chair across from him.

'Thank you, sir. I am pleased that word of my small ractise is spreading, I have the good fortune of seeing uite a few of the citizens. I am growing to love this country, 'he plantations. The farms. The towns. It is because of one )cal plantation that I am approaching you today, Mister ibdee, on a rather, . . delicate matter.'

Peter waited.

Lowering his eyes, Poliguet said, It is no secret that the ilantation, Greenleaf. . .' He stopped, adding, 'I am very oa.r.s.e, Mister Abdee. My Creole ancestors must be cring-ig in their graves with shame-. Forgive me for not offering ly condolences for your late wife. I have not met you iefore yet I rush straight to business matters, I have heard if your sad loss. Accept my condolences. And my apologies ar bad manners.'

The mention of Greenleaf instantly cued Peter as to yhorn Vicky had gathered her information from in Troy. ie remembered Curlew telling him about leaving her at he mercantile store. He knew about the upstairs offices.

He answered, 'Thank you, Mister PoSiguet. I accept your ondolences. That is most thoughtful of you. As to the subset of your manners and Greenleaf, you do not have to pologize. I do not wish to discuss that plantation in any /ay.'

I38.

'But I have a buyer for it!' Poliguet said setting to the edge of the divan.

'A buyer?' Peter wrinkled his brow. 'What makes you think Mister Breslin is interested in selling his plantation?'

'This might be his last chance.'

'Chance? Last chance?" Peter arose from his chair, saying, 'No, I do not wish to discuss this matter. It is not for me to discuss and if Mister Breslin were to sell Greenleaf, I am sure he would offer me first refusal.'

'You would buy Greenleaf?'

'It was my wife's home.' Peter answered blandly. Then moving toward the double white doors, he said, 'It is most kind of you to come by to introduce yourself and offer your condolences. I am sorry that we had to meet under such sad circ.u.mstances. But at least we have met. Good-day, Mister Poliguet.'

The fact that stories were already spreading in the countryside and towns about Barry Breslin's financial troubles made Peter realize that he must do something immediately to stop them. But Barry always refused to talk about money,saying at one moment that this years crop would solve all problems, and moaning in the next moment that even a b.u.mper crop would not save him.

Idle rumours often grew into serious, malicious scandals, Peter knew. He did not feel that Greenleaf was beyond salvation. But his westerly neighbours, the Witcherleys, had offered to sell him two of their fields and he desperately wanted to put his money there. The Witcherleys had lost a son and no longer pursued an ancient feud with this land. Peter was willing to forego buying the Witcherley property, though, to put money into Greenleaf to save it if for no other reason than he knew that Kate would have liked that.

Or would she have liked it? he asked himself tonight. His mind was now so confused since her sudden death that he could not decide if it had been wise to sign for Barry's loans. Or to pay more direct money. Would Kate have changed her mind, too? Would she decide that such an I39.

iction would again be providing a bottomless purse for her eckless nephew?

Peter saw that he, first, had to clear his mind of Kate before he could see the best way in which to deal with this ncreasingly dangerous situation. Poliguet's visit told him .hat rumours were fastly spreading. Peter secretly feared "umours. He recognized them as being instruments of vengeance. But to tackle them he first had to have a lucid nind, to be in keen condition, not muddle his way and perhaps even lose Dragonard Hill. He realized that any-:hing was possible once rumours started.

Kate! He again returned to his thoughts of s.e.x as being m antidote to this c.u.mbersome melancholia. He appreciated the indulgent-even frivolous-aspect of such thinking. But it could work. He had at last found someone to serve as a new s.e.xual partner, embarking on a pursuit of pa.s.sions.

One entire phase of his lifetime had pa.s.sed, Peter re-ilized, one complete adult phase since he had last sought to lose himself in s.e.xual pursuits. Was it young manhood sr middle-age which had eluded him? He did not know. He did not feel like an old man but yet he felt that he had ;een enough of life to disqualify him from being young, A domestic schedule no longer mattered to him. That change had only happened in the brief time since Kate had died. Even supper at night no longer provided enjoyment. He had antic.i.p.ated the arrival of his daughters home, to have them all around one table but what had happened to that hope?

Tonight he had eaten alone in the dining-room with Vicky. She did not again mention the subject of Barry and money. She talked about the past in a detached, careless way. She even had mentioned a young black man named Lloy. Why would Vicky ever talk about Lloy, Peter wondered, a free Negro now living at Treetop House?

Peter was becoming suspicious, distrusting with the immediate people in his life. He did not recognize this feeling as being part of his nature and it troubled him.

Can a man change so quickly? he asked himself as he ambled alone tonight after supper to meet Belladonna at the place where they had prearranged for tonight's a.s.signation. Can one death throw a man's entire pattern of living I40.

so much out of keel? He was strangely grateful for his concern over his attentions toward Belladonna. It diverted him from problems he could not immediately solve.

The original feeling that he was partic.i.p.ating in an almost incestuous act by having s.e.x with his daughter's lover had pa.s.sed when he had seen Belladonna physically responding to him on their first night together. He had not questioned her why she had chosen to meet him. His masculine pride needed some bolstering. He was not a proud man but he was pleased to see a young woman enjoying herself with him.

Enjoyment was the key to his interpretation of Belladonna's interest in him. He surmised that she no longer enjoyed a s.e.xual life with Imogen. He had never doubted that the two women practised a perverse love affair in the old house where they lived. His knowledge of such relations.h.i.+ps was that they were not lasting.

The sight of Belladonna standing at the appointed spot alongside the path made him forget about all these doubts, ideas, observations, and opinions. He knew that she also had spotted him. She was backing into the thicket.

Peter did not speak to the tawny-skinned girl as he approached her. He squeezed the slim hand which she extended to him. He wrapped both arms around her and he felt her return the embrace.

Many things had changed since their first meeting. This was their third a.s.signation but, already, Belladonna lifted her mouth to his without prompting. He did not like imposing himself on females. He felt excited that Belladonna welcomed him.

Holding the slim girl in his arms, Peter tasted her sweet mouth as their tongues met, their lips moistly slid against one another's, their kisses turning into a desperate exchange of tongues, saliva, even one another's breath.

Peter thought about this girl making love to his daughter. He wondered if she and Imogen kissed in this same manner. If Belladonna gave herself to Imogen . . , The mounting pa.s.sion of his own love-making soon cast these thoughts from his mind. His only wish now was to be closer to Belladonna, to feel her smooth skin against his naked body.

Belladonna momentarily refused to relinquish her grasp.

I4I.

She also had quickly grown to enjoy this development of feelings between them, a beginning of what seemed to her to be a new life, a new awareness in herself.

The image of Imogen also pa.s.sed through Belladonna's mind. She remembered Imogen pressing her for details about their first meeting, demanding to know how her father had responded to her body, if he was weakening for her.

Belladonna had antic.i.p.ated such questions from Imogen. She knew Imogen's perversions, her thoughts of power, her curiosity about males' bodies. But the last time that Imogen had questioned Belladonna, the black girl was more hesitant to speak. She did not know whether she could share the stories of this love-making any longer with Imogen. These moments with Peter Abdee were becoming almost sacred to her.

Lying on the ground, Belladonna cradled Peter between her legs, reaching to hold his head between her hands as she kissed both his eyes, rubbed her face against his weathered skin.

Peter gently began nibbling her ear as he lay down upon her, easing the fullness of his masculinity into her, a phallus made of flesh and blood, an instrument of true pa.s.sion instead of a blunt object hewn from wood and stretched -over with leather. Belladonna adored the reality of his manliness. She felt beautiful, needed, the most complete she had ever felt in her life. She wondered if Imogen realized what she had given to her by sending her to make love to her father. Belladonna doubted it. She even feared it. But nothing could stop this now.

Malou was pleased that her mistress was tired tonight, pleased because she saw that her mistress was finally fatigued from s.e.xual satisfaction. She did not know where her mistress had met a man to satisfy her but she knew that it was not on her father's land and this pleased Malou. She had fears that her mistress would become the instrument for trouble here.

Despite that the black people lived in slavery here as in Cuba. Malou saw that the black people here did not I42.

suffer like so many blacks did on the island of Cuba. There the slave owners did not respect the family on their plantations, the farm lands they called fincas. The Cubans bought more men in the slave markets than women because men were stronger and the Cubans did not care if they died after four or five years of work because the price for a strong black man was low and profits from sugar were high.

Malou saw-and learned from her new black friends in Town-that no new slaves were purchased by their master and any seldom sold. The most suffering she saw amongst the slaves was caused by one another. She saw the child named Fat Boy wandering around the plantation. Malou was glad that the women in the house for children, The Shed, were giving him a home. She saw that the child suffered from the influence of the black man in the kitchen who dressed himself in women's clothing. But she also saw a deep strength in that black man. She saw a strength which others could not see in him.

Many black people concerned themselves with learning truths and facts about a life around them, and the spiritual life of future happiness. Malou knew this from her past. She also saw it here on Dragonard Hill. But the black people here were still frightened of punishment. That fear was instilled in them by the system which held them here as slaves.

Although Malou talked to more people in Town with each pa.s.sing day, telling them about their African G.o.ds- the orishas-she saw that most men and women preferred to learn the answers from the religion of white people. They saw that as their truth. They had been gone too long from their homeland. Malou considered the black woman, May-belle, to be a perfect example of a black woman in this new world who had a good heart, a strong soul, but held doubts about the words which Malou spoke of African G.o.ds. Malou was sorry that Maybelle had gone from the plantation with her mistress's sister. She would like to use Maybelle as a disciple, a woman to be an example to other black women in Town.

Malou's trust in Maybelle was based on the good woman's belief in families, children, future generations of black people. Maybelle had a son. She had given him to I43.

the white master but, instead of harbouring bitterness, she raised all the black children as her own.

Thinking about this matter tonight as her own mistress slept, Malou wondered if in fact she might learn something herself from Maybelle. She still had bitter hatred raging inside herself not only against white people but for the black people of the Dahomey tribe. She remembered that it was the Dahomey tribe who had raided her village when she was only a girl, had taken all the people of the Yoruba village and sold them to white slave traders on the Niger River.

Black people had sent Malou into the world as a slave. They had killed her mother, father, sold her brothers and sisters, destroyed the hut in which the ceremonial instruments were kept. Malou had been marked as a child to become a priestess in the Yoruba nation. She had been sent to learn the sacred tales from the hougan. She had been in his hut that night when the hougan had drunk too much palm wine, had not ordered the change of night guards on the village, had been sleeping drunkenly when the Da-horneys' arrows pierced the sacred hut, when the fires spread over the gra.s.s roofs of the village, the night on which Malou had been taught that she must trust no one-not even a sacred hougan-but to place her faith only in the G.o.ds . . . and herself.

Distrust also bred cunning. Malou had learned that it was as difficult to stay alive in the white man's world as it had been in the forests towering along the River Niger. That a person must be cunning as well as protective. Malou knew all these things but still did not see how she was meant to teach them here successfully on Dragonard Hill. She would try to show the black people the similarities between the two religions, that the sky was big enough for many G.o.ds and saints and all their ancestors, but that the world would not be inherited-as the Christians said-by the meek. The strong, the cunning would inherit this earth. Malou prepared all this in her mind tonight for the meeting tomorrow night in the chapel at the crossroads in Town.

Chapter Eleven.

CORN WHISKY.

Imogen lay awake on the corn husk mattress in the darkness of her bedroom upstairs in the old house. She did not move when she heard bare footsteps stealthily ascend the wooden staircase outside the room. The hinges creaked as the door slowly pushed open; the footsteps softly entered the room. Whilst lying awake here in the darkness waiting for Belladonna to return home, Imogen had resolved not to abuse her for coming back at such a late hour. She remained motionless on the bed, listening to Belladonna pull the dress over her head and surmised that her next movements-the soft rustling of clothes-came from Belladonna carefully arranging the dress over the back of a chair.

The p.u.s.s.y, Imogen cruelly thought. The p.u.s.s.y took off her frock and fixed it prettily over a chair so the ruffles won't get mussed! Just like a... p.u.s.s.y!

The corn husk mattress creaked as Belladonna slipped naked into bed. Imogen waited for her to snuggle alongside her, to wrap one arm around her and report that she had again obeyed her instructions tonight.

No arm advanced across the lumpy mattress. Belladonna made no move toward Imogen. She did not even tug at the flannel sheeting nor whisper in the darkness to Imogen.

The p.u.s.s.y's scared stiff of waking me, Imogen guessed as she lay with her back still positioned to Belladonna. Well, let her just lie there and worry. I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'll ask her any questions. Why make her think that I'm interested I45.

in what he's been doing to her. . . p.u.s.s.y. I just want the wench to get him hooked on her. I'll soon be giving all the orders around here. The old man will soon have Kate out of his mind, will have forgotten about chasing other p.u.s.s.ies, black or white. He'll be so head-over-heels crazy about my black-skinned p.u.s.s.y here but I'm the one who'll be giving the orders!

Pleased with what she believed to be the progress of her plan, Imogen closed her eyes in an attempt to go to sleep. She soon heard soft breathing coming from behind her back, a sound which told her that Belladonna already had fallen asleep.

Imogen remained wide awake. She had consumed more than one jug of whisky after Belladonna had gone to meet Peter tonight but even the strong alcohol did not make her feel drowsy.

Lying awake in the darkness of the bedroom, Imogen continued thinking about Belladonna, imagining how she had made love again tonight with her father, still contemplating the idea of awakening the girl and forcing her to tell her specifically what they had done tonight-if her father had screwed her more than once; if he had eaten her c.u.n.t; had Belladonna sucked his p.e.c.k.e.r; did she enjoy his c.o.c.k better tonight than last time; did he keep it hard for her; did he maybe even stick it up her a.s.s!

The whisky had given Imogen a craving to enjoy s.e.x, at least vicariously. She wanted to hear a report from Belladonna's own mouth, to kiss Belladonna and taste the hint of her father's p.e.n.i.s in her mouth.

Convincing herself that she was not really concerned with the matter at the moment, Imogen again rejected the idea of awakening Belladonna. She decided that she would benefit more from a good night's sleep. She still was unable to drift off to sleep, though, and the grey light of morning soon began to filter through the curtains on the window. Imogen finally felt her eyelids become heavy. She dozed briefly to an outside morning chorus of birds. But, then, at the sound of a rooster crowing in the distance, she knew that she must get out of bed and go to work, that she had virtually lost a full night's sleep.

A hard day lay ahead of Imogen. She had told the driver in Town that she would join him and a chopping crew after I46.

daybreak, that they would take axes, saws, mallets, and wedges to a back timber patch on the plantation where they would fell trees and cut the fence posts which were needed to make a markation line on the far boundaries of Dragonard Hill.

Throwing back the bed covers with the day's work in the forefront of her blurred thoughts, Imogen stepped from bed and reached for the clothing she had left strewn on and around a chair on her side of the bed. She finally sat upon the chair to pull on her boots. It was then, seeing Belladonna curled in a comfortable semi-circle in bed, that she clearly remembered how she had waited for her last night to come home from the love-ineeting with her father.

Glancing down at the black girl luxuriating in sleep, Imogen shouted, 'Wake up, you b.i.t.c.h!'

Belladonna groaned, stretching like a cat.

Infuriated by her feminine movements, Imogen pulled open the bedroom door, slammed it behind her with a loud bang, and stamped down the wooden staircase. 'b.i.t.c.h!' she repeated as she pa.s.sed into the kitchen. 'b.i.t.c.h wh.o.r.e!'

One tin plate, one bowl for porridge, one coffee mug, and cutlery set on the table where Belladonna had left them for Imogen last night before creeping upstairs to the bedroom. Imogen sent the collection of cutlery and tableware to the floor with one sweep of her hand and moved angrily toward the kitchen door.

The work in the back timberland on Dragonard Hill continued throughout the day as Imogen had predicted. She joined in the felling and limbing of trees, rolling the larger logs into piles which would be pulled by horses to the timber mill, they next began sawing the smaller trees into lengths which could be used to build zigzag fences for boundaries of this land. The steady, hearty work kept Imogen's mind off the subject of Belladonna and her father. She ate a frugal midday meal with the black workers who had brought food in cloth bundles from Town. Their work continued into the late afternoon. It was near sundown when Imogen returned to Town on foot with the gang of I47.

slave workmen; she proceeded from Town on horseback to the old house as dusk was shading the sky.

'Belladonna?' she called, entering through the back door into the kitchen. The aroma of freshly baked bread hit her nose and the smell of a stew simmering on the stove smelled undeniably delicious to her. She saw one place set on the table, though, the same tin plate, cup, and cutlery which she had sent flying to the floor this morning.

After calling again for Belladonna but still receiving no reply, Imogen went to the cupboard where she kept her supply of corn whisky, the alcohol distilled by white men in this district and which Imogen periodically purchased from the men who served as patrollers. She uncorked a brown earthen jug and, splas.h.i.+ng a cup full of potent alcohol, she took a Song drink. The whisky burned her throat but warmed her stomach. She suddenly felt ravenous. She remembered that she had eaten little more today than a piece of cold bread.

Imogen kept the whisky jug alongside her on the table as she greedily spooned, first, one plateful and, then, a second helping of the chicken-stew-and-dumplings which Belladonna had left for her on the stove. The tastiness of the dinner did not lighten her mood toward Belladonna, though. This was the first time that Belladonna had not been waiting in the kitchen for her when she had come home from work. Imogen poured generous cupsful of whisky and, was.h.i.+ng down her supper with the alcohol, she grew more angry as she thought about Belladonna. She remembered how the black girl had sneaked into the bedroom late last night without saying a word. She remembered the precise instructions she had given the girl about how she must deal with her father. She thought how she had originally brought Belladonna to live here with her in the old house. These memories, reflections, instructions grew more turgid in Imogen's alcohol-fuelled mind and, by the time that darkness totally enshrouded the house, Imogen realized that she had to make a drastic change of plans. She herself had to intervene in the plan she had originally organized for Belladonna to pursue alone.

d.a.m.n that p.u.s.s.y b.i.t.c.h, she mumbled to herself as she shoved back her chair in drunken anger. That b.i.t.c.h is a n.i.g.g.e.r and what happens when a n.i.g.g.e.r disobeys? Gets I48.

whipped! That's what! Gets stripped of their clothes! Gets stretched out and . . . whipped!

Although Imogen could not remember the last time she had used a bullwhip on Dragonard Hill, she knew exactly where she kept one hidden here in the old house. She went to the wood pile alongside the stove and, throwing the chunks of wood to the floor, she opened a small door behind the wood-box where the forbidden instrument was concealed-the instrument which her father refused to be allowed on this plantation.

Jerking out the coil of black leather, Imogen gripped the whip's leather b.u.t.t in one hand and unfurled it with a loud crack across the kitchen floor.

'Yeah!' she said, biting her lower lip with pleasure as she heard the sound of the whip fil! the room. She snapped the whip a second time and repeated, 'Yeah!'

Anxious now to dominate, to punish someone with this whip as she had not been allowed to do in a long time, Imogen grabbed the whisky jug from the table and stomped toward the door.

'Yeah!' she called into the night, snapping the whip against the dirt yard behind the old house. Til find my black p.u.s.s.y. . . p.u.s.s.y? Where you hiding, p.u.s.s.y? Yeah!' She snapped the whip again.

Imogen was not too drunk to remember where Belladonna had been meeting her father on the path joining the main house with Town. She staggered in that direction, dragging the whip behind her across the yard as she took yet another burning drink from the whisky jug. She shouted into the night, 'p.u.s.s.y, I'm coming to get you. And you, too, Pa, you old. . . t.i.t-sucker!'

Imogen's fury increased at each turn and bend of the narrow path connecting the main house to Town. She had not found Belladonna and her father in the Sow brush where she had first seen them lying. She wondered if she had made a mistake, if she had miscalculated their usual meeting spot.